“What kind of a shop had you?”
“I’m a taxidermist, and though I say it masel’, there’s no’ a better. It’s a nice quiet trade, soothin’ tae the nerves. That’s whit’s the matter wi’ me, ma nerves.”
MacTaggart would probably have stayed until he had lost all his gains, had not a kindly fate stepped in and settled the matter for him.
He had been playing for three hours,—losing all the time. His head ached, his nerves were raw, his temper near to the breaking point. He wanted to smoke a cigarette in the atrium, but had to leave some one to take down his numbers. Beside him was a lady who was playing occasionally. She looked hot and very tired. MacTaggart asked her if she would mind occupying his seat for half an hour. She gladly consented, and he rose to give her the place. At the same moment, a red, truculent-looking Englishman on his other side, quickly put a louis on the table in front of MacTaggart.
“I claim the place,” he said sharply.
MacTaggart turned and glared at him. “But I’m givin’ the place tae the leddy,” he said.
“The place is mine,” said the man. “You rose and I put down my money. I appeal to the Chef du Table.”
The latter nodded. “By all the rules the place is monsieur’s; monsieur has put down his money, marking the place.”
MacTaggart was angry. He knew the croupiers did not like him, that they always decided against him if possible. He sat down again.
“All right,” he said, “in that case I’ll jist keep ma place. I’ll sit here till Hell freezes over before ye get it.”